


Don't Let The Loveless Ones Sell You A World Wrapped In Grey

by vodkaandlime



Category: Queen (Band), Smile (Band)
Genre: Injury Recovery, Loneliness, M/M, Mild Smut, People Watching, Shoes, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29588514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkaandlime/pseuds/vodkaandlime
Summary: Tim is lonely until Brian stumbles into his life.
Relationships: Brian May/Tim Staffell
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Tim Staffell Appreciation Weekend 2021





	Don't Let The Loveless Ones Sell You A World Wrapped In Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Wrapped In Grey" by XTC

A butterfly flutters past the window and distracts him. He accidentally knocks the plate against the tap and it cracks - the sound loud in the quiet of the kitchen. He marvels at the brightness of the butterfly in the greyness of London – grey buildings, grey pavement and grey metal showing through the railings where the black paint has worn away. The butterfly is a little splash of colour – a flash of orange beyond the bars that cover the basement window. 

The window shows the wall of the tiny little outside space of the basement flat – a grey wall. Above it the peeling railings jab upwards. They are also predominantly grey. The grey slabs of the paving stones are visible beyond the railings. The only view is of people’s feet.

Tim has grown to appreciate people who wear colourful shoes or socks. Legs covered in colourful fabric are all too rare.

Since he has been incapacitated – effectively imprisoned here in the little flat with the bars on the window – he has had ample time to look at the passing feet and ankles. Some shoes pass almost every day and he wonders about these regulars – where are they going? Are they going to work?

The shiny black lace-ups are heading towards a bank he suspects. The high-heeled black patent leather shoes are heading towards a small office where an elderly man leers as black patent bends over to retrieve something from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.

Tim is intrigued by the white clogs. Thin ankles sprout from them often encased in colourful striped socks. The socks are not always a pair. Sometimes the white clogs are accompanied by sparkly pink shoes.

Tim does not think the owners of these shoes are going to dull office jobs. They promise fun. He thinks their owners would have a sense of humour. 

It is summer now beyond the bars covering the basement window as the butterfly shows. The basement is hot and stuffy. It is too cold in winter and too warm in summer. Not all of the windows open. 

Some of the passing feet wear sandals. Tim catches flashes of colour from painted toe-nails. Glimpses of fire engine red – orange – pink – a startling lime green – it appears that bold colours are the fashion for nails this year. 

The clogs are unaccompanied on the day their owner’s foot catches on the uneven paving slab and he lands in a crumpled heap on the pavement with a cry of pain. Tim catches a glimpse of a cloud of dark hair. 

He moves to the door cursing his slowness. “Are you okay?” he calls up the steps to the clog wearer who is still sprawled on the pavement. His voice sounds odd and he wonders how long it has been since he spoke to another living soul. 

The figure on the pavement groans then scrambles awkwardly first to his knees – which causes him to wince and inhale sharply – and then he uses the railings to haul himself to his feet. He gives a little cry of pain when he attempts to put weight on his left foot. “Sorry,” he apologises to Tim, “I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”

Tim helps him down the steps into the little basement flat. The clog wearer is called Brian, he discovers. Tim wants to ask what the person with the sparkly shoes is called but he does not wish to appear deranged. The crazy basement stalker who chooses his victims based on their footwear.

He persuades Brian to push down his jeans so that he can see the damage to his knees. Both are cut, bleeding. Brian is wearing purple underpants. His red face clashes with them. Tim is unable to help himself from saying, “Nice knickers,” and now Brian’s face is truly scarlet. “Sorry,” Tim offers. 

Brian talks as if his words will dispel any awkwardness. Brian is a student, an astrophysicist. Tim explains he was studying art and design before the car accident he is still slowly recovering from. “I’m improving every day,” he assures Brian. “I hope to be able to return to college in the autumn.”

Brian winces as Tim cleans his wounds and applies dressings. Tim bandages his ankle to give it some support. He tries to think when he last touched someone. His fingers have occasionally brushed those of the people behind the counter in the corner shop when he has been buying milk and bread. Apart from that he does not think he has had physical contact with another living soul since he was in hospital. 

“This is very kind of you,” Brian tells him. 

“I couldn’t just leave you on the pavement,” Tim tells him. “Quite apart from anything else you were blocking my view!”

They both laugh and then suddenly they are kissing. Brian’s lips are chapped. He tastes of toothpaste and coffee. Tim allows his fingers to tangle in Brian’s magnificent curls.

“I don’t, normally,” Brian breathes.

Tim wonders which thing Brian does not normally do. Trip? Injure his ankle? Enter the house of a strange man? Kiss a strange man?

Tim kisses Brian again. It is like a dam bursting – no contact – contact – craving contact – greedy for contact. He kisses Brian urgently. “I’ve been on my own here too long,” he gasps – an explanation – an apology – a proposition.

Brian’s long fingers grasp Tim’s shirt and begin to pluck the buttons undone. His calloused fingertips brush Tim’s skin and Tim gasps. “You’re a guitar player?” he notices. 

Brian nods and takes hold of one of Tim’s hand, turning it over, running his fingertips over Tim’s palm, over his own fingertips. “As are you,” he notes.

They smile at each other shyly and continue to remove clothing. Tim tells Brian to wait and moves as swiftly as he can to the bedroom where he retrieves lube and condoms. Do they have use-by dates? He has no idea how long he has had them for. He feels a little bubble of happiness rise within him as his cock rises without. The day has taken an unexpectedly glorious turn. 

He is half-afraid Brian might have left while he was out of the room but he is sitting where Tim left him looking incongruous – naked on one of Tim’s kitchen chairs. Tim suggests moving to the sofa for greater comfort.

The rush to remove clothing has given way to a slower pace now they both seem agreed that this is definitely happening. The urgency has been replaced by a leisurely curiosity about each other’s bodies – the mood is now languid and sensual befitting the drowsy heat. 

Tim licks Brian’s nipple and Brian groans. Brian slowly works him open, inserting first one long finger then another. Brian scissors his fingers causing Tim’s breath to hitch. Brian’s lips are pressing against Tim’s neck. “I don’t believe in fate,” Brian breathes, “And yet this feels like destiny.”

Tim can only moan. Brian adds another finger and he gasps. Brian asks if he is okay. Tim thinks he is not but he is not in a wonderful way. He simply says yes. 

Brian eases into him. The sensation is almost overwhelming. There is concern in Brian’s voice now when he asks if Tim is okay. “Yes,” he gasps, “Yes, it’s...Yes...” 

Brian laughs. “You’re amazing,” he tells Tim. He starts to move. 

Tim feels as if he is floating in a little bubble of happiness. He had forgotten how it felt to be touched, to use his body like this, to enjoy someone else’s body like this. He sends a silent little prayer of thanks to the council for not repairing the pavement.

Afterwards his guest heaves himself off the sofa and goes in search of washcloths and towels. Tim thinks he should be doing this but he is cocooned in bliss on the sofa. Brian tenderly cleans him. 

Once Tim feels able to move he makes them both a cup of tea. They sit fully clothed at the kitchen table smiling stupidly at each other. “Do you live near here?” Tim asks. “I’ve seen your clogs pass by before.”

Brian lives round the corner, apparently. They beam at each other, both thinking how handy that is.

Tim cautiously says, “Sometimes there are other shoes with you?”

Brian grins at the phrasing. “Those shoes belong to my friend Roger,” he tells Tim. “He’s a drummer. We’re considering starting a band.” 

Then Brian’s look turns to one of horror. “Shit! Roger! I was on my way to meet Roger when I fell!”


End file.
